Something; i.e. Crack Spack

Jack and Spot walked into the Pet Shop. Actually, no, Jack pulled Spot into the building, the former squeeing with fangirlish delight. Once the two came to a rest on the cracked linoleum floor, Spot turned to glare at Jack.

"I dislike running places. I was perfectly happy staying at the apartment, but you had to go and insist upon getting one of these- one of these- monstrosities."

Jack rolled his eyes and walked forward. All around him, little puppies and kittens frolicked in the warm fuzzy atmosphere of Pete's Pet Shoppe, the gayest gay hangout ever. Various couples watched dogs play with their siblings, cats get wigged out on catnip, and fish swim in complicated fish patterns; the braver (or kinkier) ones watched snakes eat mice.

Spot immediately gravitated to that corner of the room. Jack stayed over by the kittens.

They both stared at (and in Jack's case, cuddled) their respective animals. All of sudden, however, Spot's reverie with what he had now dubbed his snake was interrupted.

"SPOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOT!"

Spot's lip curled in minor annoyance before he walked over to the kitten display.

"What?" (Bitch.)

"I want Debauchery."

"…pardon?"

"I want Debauchery!"

"…in the pet store?"

"Well, yes. But no, I want this kitten. I've named him- are you ready for it?- Debauchery!"

"Why?" Spot could feel the headache. It was the same one he always got when Jack was saying these kinds of crazy things. He'd had it so many times by now that he'd half-decided to name it Morry and take it out sometimes for a nice cup of tea and cookies, away from the crazy that was his Jack.

"Because the face he's got right now looks like the one on that guy from the porn movie I like. You know the one, with the…"

At this point in the conversation Spot's brain shut off to prevent his death. He figured eventually Jack began speaking of something less disturbing, but unfortunately, when he could see or hear again he was walking back out of the pet store with a kitten in a carrier in his left hand and Jack's death grip on his right.

"…I loathe you," he said out of habit.

Jack merely smiled and kissed Spot on the cheek and said what he always said:

"Can we go for ice cream?"

Spot cradled the kitten even closer, repressing the urge to kill the damned thing before it sank its claws even further into his arm. He supposed that his gentlemanly Irish roots prevented him from beating both it and Jack upside their heads with the bag they had gotten from the so very gay pet store. This bag contained a small, thin pink collar sprinkled with rhinestones and a small bag of food.

He resisted the urge to say something along the lines of "Only if it's kitten flavored."

"I don't have any more money, given that you oh so very conveniently forgot your wallet before dragging me along on this little excursion and made me buy the kitten that's currently—" But Jack was not listening at all, instead nuzzling the kitten in Spot's left arm.

"Aw it's so cute I think it likes you it's purring!" Jack babbled, continuing on at a rate of several precious moments of life Spot would never get back per minute. Spot did what any self-respecting Irishman would do: began to tune him out.

Do not beat your lover. Do not beat your lover. He owns your apartment. He will deprive you of sex. Do not beat your lover. Oh God he's using very small words that don't actually have meaning. Please kill me now.

"OooooOOOOoooooo, is oo a wovvy dovvy pwetty kitty? Is oo? Is ooooooo?"

With a jerk that would have given any other man whiplash, Spot snapped his neck over to the side to stare desperately at Jack.

"Ice cream! Let's go for ice cream and by fuck I don't know how I'll pay but I will somehow. Ice cream, and let's leave the dam- I mean, the wovvy dovvy pwetty kitty at the apartment."

Jack threw his arms about Spot's neck (without worrying about the currently-being-smashed kitten) and peppered (or spiced?) Spot's face with kisses. And one very long lick.

"YAAAAY ICE CREAM! Do you think they have Spot-flavored yet? I mean, every time we go I always tell them how good you taste, in every way shape and form…heh…oh yes, that reminds me, we've been banned from every ice cream store within six blocks of home, we're going to have to find another one or just cycle through them again."

The cat went for Spot's jugular.

"WHY, Jack, do I stay with you?!" he screamed, his nice clean shirt getting all bloody.

"Because I can do this," Jack muttered sexily, kissing him. A lot. With tongues and other such things as are used in kissing.

Spot melted. And sighed contentedly, despite the two holes in his jugular from the cat's teeth.

"Come on, Jack. We'll go to the one a coupl'a blocks from home and- oh dear fuuuuck (because of Spot's accent, this came out sounding like fooooook) I hope they don't remember us and do what they did last time. At least, I hope they don't still have the pit bulls behind the counter."

I do love you quite a lot, you know. Despite your idiotry and despite the fact that you have nearly killed the cat (which deserves it) by now. Even if it's only because you're a great fuck. And that you own the apartment.

Jack gave him his trademark silly grin. "Of course they don't. I set them all free in the yard behind the apartment."

…Okay, yes, you are DAMN lucky you're a good lay.

AND THEY WALKED OFF INTO THE SUNSET.

"Goddamn motherfucking cat with its CLAWS IN MY CHEEK."

…OR SOMETHING.